Summer's End
by AreiaCannaid
Summary: The Festival of Summer's End has arrived and mischief is in the air. (Takes place during the first few months of Gilan's apprenticeship.)
1. Chapter 1

**Summer's End **

**A/N: **Happy autumn to everyone in the northern hemisphere (and happy spring to everyone else who is not)! I guess I got in the fall spirit and was being pestered by a little niggling All Hallows Eve plot bunny that wouldn't leave me alone until I started writing it down. Long story short, I went with it X) This is mostly meant to be a fun little short, probably about only 3 chapters long. Anyhow, I had quite a lot of fun writing this and I hope it proves to be just as fun to read! (Please see the end of the work for historical notes if you're interested in that sort of thing XD)

**Summary:** The Festival of Summer's End has arrived and mischief is in the air. (Takes place during the first few months of Gilan's apprenticeship with Halt.)

**Note:** This short could contain minor spoilers for Ranger's Apprentice Books 8 and 9 (specifically in regards to Halt's backstory). You have been warned! XD

**Disclaimer:** I have nothing but respect for John Flanagan and the world and characters he's created. I own absolutely nothing and do not profit from this in any way other than my enjoyment and hopefully the enjoyment of others.

* * *

**Summer's End**

**Prolouge **

Hollis watched the flames dwindle and could not stop his mouth from curling into a sneer of distaste. The disappointment in his chest burned hotter than the coals and ashes he could see in front of him. Months of careful planning and preparation had culminated into this disaster, this waste. Every bucket of water the knights tossed into the flames of the silversmith's house was like rubbing salt into a fresh wound. And the soft patter of the rain bouncing off the hood of his cloak only served to remind him that even the weather had been conspiring against him.

He gritted his teeth as he watched the knight patrol, the rain, and numerous concerned neighbors snuff out the success of his plan as surely as they snuffed out the fire he had set. The last of the flames perished in a final whoosh of smoke. The good citizenry of Wensly Village cheered their success—and consequently cheered Hollis's failure. Barely able to suppress a snarl of rage, he turned and strode away, heading to the combination tavern and inn to try and drown his anger and disappointment in a freshly poured tankard.

As the evening, and the number of drinks he downed, wore onwards, he found that his resentment for this whole situation had as well. He had spent so long trying to figure out a way to rob the silversmith without leaving any trace behind to pin the crime back on his shoulders; he had eventually come up with what he knew was still an ingenious plan—despite the fact that it had failed.

He had waited patiently for the silversmith to get in a new shipment of silver ingots, for the local Ranger to leave on business and, finally, for the silversmith to leave for his daily evening drink at the tavern and inn, before putting his plan in motion.

The silversmith's home, due to the nature of his occupation, was extremely secure against robbery. He would never have been able to easily break-in. Even if he had somehow found a way, that would have only been the first step. Ambrose was an overcautious sort and kept all his valuables in a solid oak safe—the key to which he hid thoroughly.

All those obstacles had been meant to be overcome with his idea of starting a fire. Everything was supposed to burn to the ground, including the safe box where the man kept all the silver and precious jewels. The incident was to have been marked off as a simple tragic accident, and Hollis would have been able to secretly pick through the rubble later that very night to find the jewels and precious metals before anyone was the wiser. And if the fire was hot enough to melt the more identifiable pieces, then all the better for him.

But Ambrose had come home early and sounded the alarm to a nearby group of knights on patrol... and the rest was history now. So here he was—with nothing. He slammed his tankard down before he was distracted by a conversation at the table behind him.

"They were able to put it out but the fire destroyed most of his home. I hear he's going to be staying here at this inn, until his house is mended enough to live in again," one man was telling another.

Hollis frowned in thought, wondering if an opportunity to rectify his failure might just have presented itself.

Now that the silversmith was going to be staying here at the inn—likely with all his valuables in tow—his room would definitely not be as fortified against robbery as his house had been. Breaking in and taking what he pleased would be easy enough. But he couldn't think of a way to do it cleanly. After all, he lived here in Wensly—which was why he'd gone to such great lengths to come up with a plan that could never lead back to him, a plan where he'd never be identified as a culprit.

Then he stopped short, frowning as he thought. All Saints' Day and All Saints' Eve were only a few days away.

That meant that, in only a few days, many people would be going guising, or souling. This was a practice that had arisen partially from the All Saints' Day bent towards honoring the fallen and partially because the old Celts and Gaels believed that the walls between this world and the spirit world were thinnest around that time—which meant that spirits could easily cross over into this world. Consequently, the old Celts and Gaels had come up with the idea that hanging lanterns, lighting bonfires, and dressing up as spirits, could ward real spirits away or trick them into leaving a person alone, thus keeping them safe on that dangerous night. The practice had stayed even when the more Alarluen influences from the All Saints' Day festival mingled with the old Celtic ones. In a couple of days, the village would be distracted celebrating All Saints' Eve and Summer's End—and many people would be going around in guise.

He felt the wheels of his mind begin to turn. He had an idea of how to fix this, how to get what he wanted. All he needed was a crew.

* * *

**Chapter 1**

Gilan wiped sweat off of his brow, stopping a moment to catch his breath before moving to start the next set of the exercises he was working through. He'd only been a Ranger's apprentice for a few months and already it seemed that he had worked harder than he had during all the years he'd spent in Battleschool combined. But if there was one thing he was certain of, it was that he would never trade this for what he'd had before. He was happier here than he'd ever been training as a knight—despite his new mentor's grim mannerisms, he thought with a faint smile. Ranger training was something that meant everything to him, something that he'd wanted for himself…

Well, it wasn't the only thing he wanted for himself at the moment. He couldn't help but sneak a quick glance in the direction of Wensly village before looking towards where Halt sat on the veranda of the little cabin in the woods, reading reports.

He had something he desperately wanted to ask the grizzled Ranger, but had been putting off for the better part of the day. This was because he'd been waiting for the right moment; he needed all the help he could get in getting a favorable answer after all. And this moment wasn't the right one. If he tried to ask Halt now before he'd finished all his exercises and lessons, he was positive that it wouldn't go over well.

Sighing softly, he got back to work. Over the past month, Halt had been teaching him how Rangers moved and fought. It involved more than just silent movement, he'd quickly learned. It included the way he held and carried himself—and the way he moved in general.

Rangers used an entirely different fighting style when it came to hand to hand combat than knights did. Halt had demonstrated its efficiency to devastating effect. Gilan had been knocked flat in moments the first time they'd sparred—and he'd previously been able to hold his own fairly well against other Battleschool apprentices back home at Caraway.

The Ranger's style seemed more about using an opponent's strength against them, coupled with the best positioning for, and most effective, offensive strikes—which was more like how he'd been taught to use his sword by Mac'Neil than the hand to hand combat he'd be taught by Sir Rowland. And that was only the combat.

The other part of it was about movement itself. Aside from silent movement, he was learning how to make movements both economical and powerful, how to keep the body's momentum going in a smooth continuous motion, how to blend a run into a jump, into a vault and back into a run or a roll, and how to see the landscape and environment as tools to that purpose. It was about learning how to land softly and safely when making a jump from a tall height: same idea about keeping in motion to land in a roll and them back up again to lessen the impact. It was also about learning ways to safely make long-distance jumps, and the more advanced principles of climbing things safely. All of which were skills that Ranger's needed and could well save lives. At least, that was how Halt had explained it when Gilan had mustered up the courage to ask.

Some of these skills were fairly innate to Gilan already, but not all of them. And the latter were taught by repeated odd agility exercises. Halt had him doing set after set of exhausting drills that included quadrupedal exercises, dips, balancing, something that looked similar to a sort of vertical push up, and different types of jumping exercises.

Gilan hadn't really worked out the point of all of them yet, and Halt hadn't been very inclined to share any further. To be entirely honest, Gilan was having a little trouble seeing how they would all blend together into something like Halt had described.

In fact, he wasn't entirely certain that Halt wasn't just having him on—that this was some sort of elaborate and extended joke in recompense for that rather ill-conceived prank Gilan had pulled a couple of weeks ago. He winced slightly at the memory; Halt certainly hadn't found it very funny—although there wasn't really much, so far as Gilan could tell, that the grim Ranger found truly funny. He stopped in the middle of the sort of push-ups he was doing as he thought it, suddenly suspicious, wondering if Halt was having a laugh at him.

Gilan felt a grin creeping across his face at the thought. He could appreciate the nuances of a good long-running practical joke after all—which was something he'd recently learned Halt was definitely not above. Besides that, it would be unsportsmanlike not to be able to take a return prank after all. Gilan's smile dropped a little…. The only problem was that he sometimes had a hard time knowing whether or not Halt was indeed joking about something. His deadpan manner and expressions occasionally made it hard to tell.

Gilan shook his head at the thought, before moving on to the final set of exercises. Now that he was so close to finishing this session, there was something _far_ more pressing to consider than his new mentor's sense of humor. He glanced surreptitiously again towards Halt and bit his lip in thought as he silently debated over the best way to ask his mentor for an evening off.

All Saints' Eve, also known as Summer's End, was only two days away. The village was full of the talk of the upcoming bonfire, celebration, and feasts—not to mention going souling: the practice of offering prayers for those who had passed in exchange for pastries. Gilan loved the festival, loved all the food, the fun, the stories, the honoring and remembering of those who had passed, going door to door in disguise to get pastries and soul cakes, and the exciting, spooky, edge that came with it all. The village was abuzz with excitement and anticipation and so was he. He dearly wanted to go.

Unfortunately, Gilan had quickly learned that Halt had never been overly compelled to follow traditions. He liked to do things his own way. In fact, Gilan hadn't been certain that Halt would let him have the traditional day off at the harvest festival half a month ago. Halt had only just barely, grudgingly, let him have the holiday—complaining all the while that he'd probably forget everything he'd learned in that short time. And he had waited until three days before the festival had begun before he'd given that scant declaration of permission.

Gilan had been hoping that getting permission to have the evening off for All Saints' Day would have gone the same way… but the three-day mark had passed and Halt hadn't so much as made a single mention of the holiday. Gilan was growing anxious, especially since he knew it would probably have to come down to him asking permission himself. He wasn't at all certain that Halt would agree and, worse still, that he might be angry with him for asking.

Gilan frowned at the thought then shook his head as he squared his shoulders, clinging to the hope that he might just find a way to convince the grizzled Ranger to let him go. After all, there was nothing for it but to just ask. And there was no better time than now since he'd finished all his assigned responsibilities.

**~x~X~x~**

Halt sighed softly as a shadow fell across him from where he sat on the veranda, interrupting his third read-through of a report from the Baron that detailed what had gone on in Wensly while he and his apprentice had been gone for a couple of days on the trail of some bandits. Halt grudgingly looked up to see Gilan standing hesitantly in front of him, fidgeting slightly as he obviously gathered himself to ask a question. But Halt preempted him.

"Go inside and get your kit. We're heading to the village," he decided abruptly and then held up a hand to forestall any questions. "I'll explain on the way."

Gilan merely nodded, he'd gotten more or less used to Halt's sometimes abrupt or impromptu lessons over the months they had been together.

And this was important, after all. According to the report, the silversmith's home had caught ablaze two days ago. The running theory was that the hearth fire had gotten out of control whilst the man was out. It wouldn't have been the first time. The man's home had nearly caught on fire a couple of years ago for the same reason. Ambrose was known for getting a little careless and thoughtless when he was really absorbed in his work.

He'd very likely forgotten to close the hearth grate again, and left some of his design papers nearby before leaving to the tavern for a drink. The man had been fairly fortunate that he'd come back earlier than expected to see that his house had caught alight. He'd been able, along with the help of a group of knights on patrol to rescue all his valuables and get the fire under control before his entire home was obliterated or, worse, before the flames spread to other houses in the village. Even the weather had been on his side, as a heavy rain had helped to put the fires out. The silversmith was currently staying at the inn while repairs were made on his combination house and workplace.

It was likely nothing more than an accident as the Baron's report claimed. However, Halt didn't like to simply leave things at face value. As a Ranger, it was his duty to investigate the matter just to be certain. He looked up from these thoughts, frowning as he realized that Gilan hadn't gone into the cabin to get the supplies as he had asked, and was, instead, still standing uncertainly in front of him.

"Did you forget where the door to the cabin was?" Halt asked with a raised eyebrow, "or is there some other reason why you are just standing there?"

"Well, it's just that... I had something I wanted to ask you," Gilan finally admitted.

Halt merely stared at him, both eyebrows raised in question. His apprentice obviously took that as permission to continue. He hesitated a moment before obviously deciding to just have out with it, and put on a winning smile.

"Can I have time off for the All Saints' Eve Festival?" he started before continuing quickly in an attempt to preempt rebuttals. "It's not like the Harvest Festival—it's not for the whole day. It starts around sunset, so I wouldn't miss much of my lessons. I really wanted to see the bonfire, and go souling to get pastries and soul cakes."

"You want to participate in all that superstitious nonsense?" Halt asked dryly.

"Superstitious? Which part? The old Celtic celebration or the All Saints' Day part?" Gilan asked after a brief pause, genuinely curious.

He, like Halt, knew that the Araluen festival of all Saints Day and, Summer's End, the old Celtic festival had once been two separate festivals: around the time when the first Araluen Kings replaced the old Celtic chieftains hundreds of years earlier. But since both festivals took place on the same day, they had sort of mingled together over the years. There were still some staunch followers of either one but, for the most part, everyone in Araluen celebrated the mixed version.

"Both in their own way," Halt said in answer, dryly. "Besides that, I can't really see you going door to door offering prayers for the dead."

"Why not? I'm mostly doing it for the soul cakes and pastries, remember? I'll give you half of whatever I get," he offered hopefully. "Besides, it doesn't have to be a prayer. People can give stories, poems, or songs in exchange for the cakes. I was thinking of reciting poetry."

"You, reciting poetry?" Halt asked, both eyebrows raised now. "You have enough trouble remembering words in your foreign language lessons, let alone memorizing enough poetry for the entire village."

Gilan smiled wickedly. "That's the thing—I'll only need to memorize one poem. A person would hardly know if I used the same poem on their neighbor."

Halt was about to open his mouth to continue his protest when he realized that his apprentice did have a fairly valid point—which did nothing to help his current mood.

"The answer is no, Gilan," Halt said finally.

"But, Halt—"

"No Buts."

Gilan looked absolutely crestfallen until he brightened suddenly with a new idea. "Well then, can we celebrate it more like how they do in Hibernia? You could show me some Hibernian Summer's End customs. You're always saying how important it is to learn about other cultures."

"Why Hibernian?"

"Well, I thought that… that, you'd know them?" he said lamely.

Halt gave his student a withering glare before finally relenting a little. He sighed. "If you do your best work on all your chores, assignments, and lessons until then, you'll be welcome to go souling, or guising, or whatever it's called these days."

Gilan's grin seemed about to break his face.

"Thanks, Halt!" he said happily already turning to go into the cabin to get his supplies as Halt had asked.

"Don't look too happy," Halt told him and Gilan turned his head to look a question back at him.

"You promised to give me half of whatever you get after all."

"I was hoping you'd forgotten that part," Gilan smiled ruefully.

**~x~X~x~**

Twenty minutes later found both master and apprentice circling the remains of Ambrose's home and workplace. What was left was a rather sorry sight.

"Nobody was hurt were they?" Gilan asked as he surveyed the scene.

Halt shook his head, "and they managed to save most of his possessions."

"That was lucky," Gilan said as he trailed after his mentor.

Halt nodded grimly. He liked Ambrose. It was true that he had the tendency to be a little scatterbrained occasionally. But he was a good man.

The two of them circled the remnants of the building from the outside, taking note of the damage, before circling back to have a look at what was left of the inside. One wall was entirely gone, the two adjacent walls were more than three quarters gone, and the remaining wall was the one that had survived the fire the best. It was the only one that was still standing mostly intact.

Halt and Gilan picked their way through the debris from the walls and the collapsed roof as they surveyed the damage. The fire had obviously originated near or at the hearth—as the Baron's knights had suspected. Halt could tell this by the damage and greater level of charring in that area. So far, everything seemed consistent with an accident. However, as soon as Halt made it to the wall that was still standing fully, he stopped. His eyes narrowed.

Suspicious, he left the damaged inside and circled around again to look at the still-standing wall from the outside. He frowned and then turned to Gilan who had been following silently behind him.

"What do you think Gilan?" Halt asked gesturing towards the damage. "What do you see?"

Gilan looked equally pleased and nervous to have his opinion asked.

"Well, the house was obviously burned down."

"Really?" Halt asked dryly, "I hadn't noticed."

Gilan flushed before he continued. "The fire started near the hearth like the report said," Gilan said. "I could tell by the charring marks."

Halt nodded before asking, "And everything you see here, all the evidence, it's consistent with that theory is it?"

Gilan started to nod before he stopped and frowned.

"Actually, no," he admitted finally. "I'm pretty sure that…" he trailed, holding up a hand in a wait a moment gesture. He dashed around to the other side of the wall for a moment before running back to where Halt stood. "I _am_ sure that burn patterns on that wall aren't consistent." He pointed to the wall that had the least damage. "If the fire was started inside the house, then it would make more sense for the inside of that wall to be more burned than the outside—but it isn't. The outside's more burned."

Halt allowed himself a scant nod of approval.

"But what does that mean?" Gilan asked then, looking curiously up at his mentor.

"It could mean nothing," Halt shrugged, "But it could mean that the fire didn't start inside the building like everyone thought, but rather, outside it."

Gilan frowned, biting absently at his thumbnail. "But, then that would mean that someone started it on purpose, wouldn't it?" he asked finally.

"Could mean that," Halt agreed. "But we don't know enough about what went on here to know for certain, do we?" Halt asked pointedly.

Gilan grinned as he got the silent message, already bounding off. "I'll start looking around for tracks," he called cheerily behind his shoulder.

Halt shook his head at his irrepressible student's back before allowing him the very smallest of fond smiles.

The search around the silversmith's home for tracks or any other visible evidence proved mostly fruitless. The rain had washed away most any trace of the arsonist—if there had in fact been one. The only thing they found was a partial heel print that was under the shelter of a tree. Unfortunately, that fragment couldn't tell them much: only that a person had stood underneath the tree recently and that they had worn hard-soled shoes that had a slight chip in the heel. There wasn't enough of the heel print left for them to discern the relative size of the person who made it. And there wasn't enough evidence to suggest that this person had anything at all to do with the fire.

The two finally went home after that. But Halt, despite the lack of evidence couldn't quite shake the sense that there was more to this accident than it seemed. He resolved then to keep an eye out.

**~x~X~x~**

The afternoon of All Saint's Eve found Gilan sitting happily in his room as he prepared his costume and ran the idea for several different pranks though his mind. Summer's End was, in short, a holiday that celebrated mischief—and Gilan intended to take full advantage of it. He'd already planned several such pranks. However, he knew he'd have to delay them until later—preferably until after he'd gone souling. He didn't want to give Halt any excuse to retract the permission he'd given to take the night off. Besides that, he had to worry about getting his costume together.

Gilan threaded his needle again before jabbing it into the worn white shirt he was currently turning into his costume. This time, he made certain to send his needle through the layer of cloth carefully despite his haste. His finger still smarted a little from where he'd jabbed it last time, and he had no desire to repeat that experience. He had only about half an hour before the festival would really start to go into full swing. The bonfire would be lit, food would be cooked, and people would be out celebrating.

Halt had waited until exactly two hours before the festivities would start before he'd finally given Gilan leave—which hadn't left much time for putting a costume together. He'd settled on going as a spirit as it was the quickest to make. The other three options angels, saints, or demons would have taken far longer. He just had to stitch together a few white shirts so they'd have the appearance of being ghostly or spirit-like and then paint his face with a mixture of soot and water to enhance the overall disguise. He just hoped he'd be able to finish in time. He glanced surreptitiously at the water-clock several times before he tied off the final stitch. He then held his creation up, scrutinizing it.

Overall, it was not bad for having been thrown together in a few hours. He hastily put it on and then painted his face before buckling on his knives and heading out. He didn't bother calling a farewell to Halt because he'd heard his teacher leave about an hour previous, calling that he was going to get a few things for their supper before all the shops closed for the holiday. As it was, Gilan knew he was going to be a little late. He debated for a moment about riding to the village on Blaze, but he'd have nowhere to put her when he went souling. So thinking, he left her behind and set out for the village at a jog, hoping he wouldn't be too late.

**~x~X~x~**

Halt made his way back to the little cabin in the woods just as it was starting to get dark out. He stabled Abelard, settling the little horse in for the night before taking the bundle of items he'd bought in town inside the cabin and setting them down in the kitchen. He'd only just managed to purchase them before all the shops had officially closed for the holiday.

As he laid them out side by side on the counter, and fetched a few more from their stores of provisions, he couldn't help but wonder at just what exactly he was doing, and why. That moment of doubt caused him to look uncomfortably at the familiar array of ingredients. He glared that them as if they were solely responsible for what he now considered a sudden and regrettable lapse in sanity.

It had all come down the fact that he just hadn't been able to put Gilan's suggestion to celebrate Summer's End in the Hibernian fashion out of his mind. It was true that there was a marked difference between the ways in which the two countries celebrated it. Hibernia had kept the traditions and lore of the holiday closer to the ancient Celtic Summer's End than Araluen had, and so had many different customs.

For years he had participated in them himself with his family—and the memories of those times hadn't been entirely horrible, he had to admit. A faint wistful smile touched his lips as he thought of his little sister Caitlyn. Her enthusiasm for the holiday had rivaled Gilan's, he recalled. In fact, the more he'd thought on it, the more he remembered just how precious those memories were: made all the more so by the rarity of them. He could look back at them and recall how that feeling of family and tradition had once seemed to hold more weight and importance than it did now.

Maybe he had become a little jaded, a little too irreverent over the years, he thought. Maybe he'd left a lot behind him—and for good reason too; but that didn't mean he had to ignore and leave everything about his heritage behind. It was true that there were many things about his past that he'd rather not remember or think about, things he'd been running from for so long now. But there were some things he didn't mind remembering… and, perhaps, even sharing. And he had someone he could share them with for the first time in a long time.

He sighed and then shrugged to himself. Well, in for a copper in for a gold royal. He had already gone to the trouble of finding, and in some cases purchasing, all the ingredients. It would be wasteful and pointless to stop now. Reaching up onto the shelf, he took down the cookpot and a mixing bowl and started to stoke the fire.

**~x~X~x~**

Gilan left the doorstep of one of the combination house and workplaces on Wensly Village's main street. Grinning, he happily tucked two soul cakes into the satchel he had brought with him for the purpose. Apparently the baker was quite partial to the ballad of Tamlin Mightholder. And he'd been especially partial to the few stanzas Gilan and chosen, as well as to the way Gilan had performed them—hence the two soulcakes instead of the traditional one. If this kept up, then having to share half of everything wouldn't be as bad as it could have been.

Gilan walked happily up the street, heading for the next house. Then his grin faded suddenly as the light from one of the many torches played off an indentation on the moist ground before him: a boot print. While that, in it of itself, was nothing out of the ordinary—many people were walking the streets tonight after all—what caught his eye was the shape of it. The boot that had made that print was hard-soled, the heel of which had a familiar hatch in it. He remembered instantly having seen the same hatch in the partial heel print he'd found in the woods around Ambrose's burned house.

It was fresh too, overlying all the other prints on the road. Forgetting instantly about souling at the next house, he started following after the prints until he rounded a corner and saw the man who had made them. At least Gilan assumed it was a man by his body shape and shoe size. He was tall and seemed well-muscled and fit. His back was to Gilan so he couldn't see his face, but he doubted it would have helped even if he could. The man was dressed like a spirit, as Gilan was, in loose-fitting flowing clothes and wore a heavy hood. And, if he was following tradition, it was likely his face had been heavily pained and smeared with soot and ash. Gilan watched as the man stopped near the entrance of the tavern and inn and was joined by five other similarly dressed men. All those men had hoods and their faces were heavily obscured. They had even gone so far as to cover the lower halves of their faces with scarves and scraps of cloth.

The one that Gilan had initially followed, the hatched-heeled man, had done the same to his face, Gilan saw when the man turned this way and that—checking his surroundings before all five men entered the tavern. Gilan had frozen in a deep shadow to watch the men and now he moved forward again. Somehow he knew that there was something off, suspicious about them.

Gilan, not really pausing to consider, followed after them and stepped into the tavern. He stopped abruptly as soon as he was inside the brightly lit and loud building as a slight inkling of good sense reasserted itself. Gilan checked his actions. If those men were dangerous or up to something, he could hardly deal with it himself. He'd only brought his saxe and throwing knives with him, and he was just an apprentice after all.

His eyes scanned the drinkers and merrymakers in the room and then found what he was looking for—someone official that he could voice his suspicions to. The head of the Village Watch was sitting at one of the middle tables with a few of his friends, drinking. It was oblivious he was off duty to celebrate the holiday, but this could well be an emergency.

Gilan started to make his way towards the man... But he hadn't been the only one to pick him out of the crowd.

Several things happened very quickly.

Gilan was nearly to the table when the Watch Commander screamed and fell back, a crossbow bolt seeming to sprout from his upper chest. Shocked and wide-eyed Gilan only just managed to bite back a cry of horror and surprise; though no one else who had seen the event seemed able to refrain. Several voices raised in cries of alarm, shock terror.

Despite the sudden horror and explosion of chaos, Gilan's training quickly reasserted itself as he followed the arrow's trajectory back to the counter of the bar. Hatch-heel stood there with a crossbow in hand. He must have hidden it somewhere on his person, likely in his loose flowing costume. Nearly simultaneously, the tavern door slammed violently shut. Still shocked, Gilan turned to see another of the five men standing in front of it, a loaded crossbow in his hand too. But he had little enough time to dwell on that for a deep commanding voice broke thought the shouts of alarm and chaos with a furious roar.

"Everyone gather to the center of the room! Sit down quietly or be next to meet your end tonight!"

It was Hatch-heel who had spoken, a new quarrel loaded in his crossbow. Spread in equal distances and positions all around the room, the rest his five man party raised loaded crossbows at the tavern-goers too. Several of these men also sported heavy cudgels and crude swords. Gilan felt his blood run cold. For a frozen moment, nobody in the tavern moved or spoke. Then the moment was shattered again by Hatch-heel's furious roar.

"Unless you all want to end up like the Head of the Village Watch here, you will do as I say, now!"

Eyes everywhere flew towards the Watch Commander who was lying on the ground, clutching weakly at the bloody arrow wound, his breathing hitching in shock and pain, his face pale. One after the other, people began moving towards the center of the tavern and lowered themselves to the ground. Gilan followed suit, heart pounding wildly.

Gilan knew painfully well that he was still in the beginning stages of learning how to accurately throw his saxe and throwing knife. Even if he did somehow manage to throw both accurately, at best he might take out two of the attackers—leaving the other three to shoot him full of arrows shortly thereafter. As it was, there was nothing he could do. Gilan crouched down helplessly alongside all the other tavern goers, his eyes locked on Hatch-heel and his crossbow.

* * *

**A/N:** Thanks for Reading! Reviews are always loved and so is constructive criticism, if you're of a mind to leave either, that is XD. I'm always looking to improve! So, a little bit about the history. I have done research and have tried to keep things fairly accurate to history. But there are a few notable differences, as I admit to taking a little creative license here and there. The practice of souling did originate around the 11th century. However, back then, prayers for those who passed were the only things accepted in exchange for soul cakes. It wanst until the 16th century that poetry or songs were allowed to be given in exchange for food and it wasn't until the 19th century when it was called guising. Also, only angels, saints, and demons were acceptable costumes for souling—spirits were religated more toward Samhain only. However, Araluen doesn't seem to stringently follow our history fully (as seen by things like the presence of potatoes, germ theory, and fireworks being perfected a little earlier than it was in ours). Also, Araluen seems to be a little less stringently religious than medieval England was and so I figured I could push up the time frame for a few things and mix things up just a touch. Hope that seems acceptable. XD

*One last history nerd note* XD I based Hollis's first plan: the one about burning down the house to pick through the remains for the valuable metals off an occurrence that actually happened a few times, from what I've read, during the gold rush in America. Apparently, the hastily constructed wood homes of miners in miner towns were burned down by people hoping to pick out gold from the ashes.

Hope you all have an awesome day!


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Hello everyone! Happy November! I wasn't able to get this chapter out quite as quickly as I wanted, but at least it's here now XD So, this one falls pretty squarely into the trap of being almost nonstop action, so sorry if that isn't your cup of tea (or coffee), but there was a lot that needed to happen and not a lot of time for it to happen in. There will be some much needed breathing room next chapter though, I promise. I got the idea/inspiration for this story, in case anyone is interested, from the song Flames on the Hill by Ivan Dominik. *Side note: this chapter does start in the perspective of a villager OC but its very short and does have an important bearing on the plot (sorry if you're not a fan of that either). Thanks for reading!

**TrustTheCloak:** Aww thanks :3 I think it's fun to write a young Gilan and a poor Halt who can't believe what he got himself into by accepting an apprentice XD. Their dynamic has always been fascinating to me. If you think they're good enough for that, I'd be happy to work with you/give some pointers on plots. Maybe, in return, you could teach me how to write the more emotion-based and fluffy stuff (only if you'd like to, that is). I've always been super impressed with your ability to capture relationships and emotions. Thanks so much for the review, it made my day to read!

**whentheresawill**: Thanks so much! I'm glad you liked/enjoyed it despite it not being your favorite subject. I love it whenever I see that you have a new story too! Thanks again for the review and support, it means a lot!

**Jammeke: **Yeah, guess I got a little carried away. *sheepish grin* Well, it's probably going to be mostly about Gilan and Halt—Sir David might, unfortunately, be relegated to the realm of being mentioned without truly being seen this time. I really love their dynamic too. I love grumpy Halt (who very much is a big softy even if he'd sooner shoot someone than admit it) XD I have a feeling that Gilan was probably very much like the tester kid (ah the woes of being the first). Yup definitely a hostage situation, and I was indeed hoping to touch a little on Halt's past. Thanks so much for the review! I really appreciate it and the support.

* * *

**Chapter 2**

Sela was in the kitchen, a place that she was frequently relegated to whenever her husband had friends over. For however long as they decided to stay, she would be forced to cook, wait on, and serve them. She wiped the sweat off her brow and pulled some freshly baked farm loaves from her stone oven, setting them to cool before moving to stir the soup.

"Where is the food woman?!" her husband's voice boomed from the small back room where he and his friends were conducting what they termed_ 'important business'_. She snorted at the idea. Likely as not they were merely drinking and gambling with each other as usual.

"It's coming. It'll just be a couple of minutes more!" she shouted back, knowing that ignoring him wouldn't serve her well when his friends left and they were alone again.

She sighed as she continued stirring. Her husband had never been the most caring or loving sort, but ever since he'd become close with Hollis and his friends, he'd become worse—almost unbearable to live with anymore. She took the pot off the heat and set about filling wooden bowls and then sharing out the bread.

Balancing a tray with bowls of soup in one hand and a plate of bread in the other, she made her way out of the kitchen and down the hall towards the small back room. She paused near the door to knock—as she had been ordered to do, before she even dared to enter, whenever her husband was conducting _'business_'. While she was trying to find a way to re-orient herself in order to free a hand to knock, Hollis' voice carried clearly through the door.

"So everyone is ready for tonight? Everyone has their costumes and are clear on the plan?"

"The silversmith won't know what hit him." one of her husband's friends said, she couldn't tell which.

"Neither will the people at the inn." That was her husband's voice.

She craned her head to listen further and her eyes widened.

As soon as her husband and the other men had left later that afternoon, she sat alone at the kitchen table, mind staggered over what she had heard. She was locked in a war with herself over what she was going to do. Her heart pounded as she debated with herself. Then she straightened and gathered a few things before she ran to directly towards where she knew Phillip would be. He would be acting as head of the watch during the holiday, she knew.

**~x~X~x~**

Baron Arald was just about to leave his office and paperwork in favor of attending a banquet in honor of the holiday. He had it in mind to stop off at his chambers to choose, and then don, a suitably festive doublet for the occasion before going to sit at table. But, before he'd even risen fully from his chair, a member of the Village Watch burst into the room with an anxious-looking woman following behind him.

In the adjoining room, Arald could hear Martin protesting loudly at their break of protocol. Arald paid that no mind as soon as he recognized the watchman in question. Phillip, his name was. Arald knew that he was acting Head of the Watch today since his commander had taken the day off to celebrate the festival.

He knew Philip to be an able man who possessed a decent head on his shoulders. He would not have come barging in without good reason. So thinking, he preempted the man before he even had the chance to apologize for his rudeness.

"What's happened, Phillip?"

"Milord, Sir, I just received word that there might be an attempted armed robbery at the tavern tonight. Sela, tell the Baron what you told me."

The Watch Captain urged the woman forward and Baron Arald gave her his full attention as she explained what she'd seen, heard, and suspected. By the time the woman was finished speaking, Baron Arald had risen to his feet.

He called immediately for Martin. When the man came in, Arald swiftly gave his orders.

"Summon Rodney, tell him to rally a party of knights, and send a messenger for the Ranger. Phillip, gather your men and meet me before the portcullis of the castle. And, Martin, find someone to help Sela here settle in to wait."

Both men nodded and hurried to do what was asked. Arald went to go get his armor and sword, all thoughts of the banquet completely forgotten.

**~x~X~x~**

Gilan's heart raced as he knelt on the floor. The bandits had forced them all to sit pressed tightly together in a rough approximation of a circle in the middle of the room. In front of them, and just out of reach, lay a large pile of weapons that the bandits had confiscated. Gilan could see the hilt of his own saxe towards the bottom of the stack.

A glance to his left brought his focus to the Watch Commander. The man's two friends were frantically trying their best to stop the bleeding, but it wasn't looking good. Gilan wanted to find some way to help them but knew that he was no skilled hand at healing; he didn't know much more than basic field dressing. He also was painfully aware that if he tried to move from where he was, on the opposite end of the circle of prisoners, he had more chance of getting shot than he did aiding the injured man any. His only comfort was that the man's two friends did seem to know what they were doing. But Gilan, no stranger to combat and battle despite his youth, knew that the man's injury was a grave one and could well become fatal if he didn't get help soon. He looked away, feeling faintly sick.

Gilan's eyes flicked to, and then followed, two the bandits and Hatch-heel as they moved towards the enclosed stairwell. It led towards the second story of the inn where the sleeping accommodations were. The remaining two bandits stayed where they were, weapons trained on the hostages.

It wasn't long before Gilan became aware of several screams, cries of alarm, and unsettling sounding crashes coming from the second story level. Then the bandits emerged, manhandling the few people who had been up in their rooms down the stairs and into the ranks of the other hostages. Gilan saw a woman carrying her crying child, two men, and Ambrose the silversmith. The bandits then went back up the stairs. When next they came down again, they were carrying several valuable items and a heavy-looking sack.

Gilan glanced at Ambrose and then back to the sack and could guess what it contained. Where before he'd been too shocked to know what was happening—other than the obvious robbery—the moment he guessed what the sack contained, the pieces came together and he felt he knew exactly what was going on.

Because his home had burned down, Ambrose had been forced to take up residence at the inn with all his salvaged belongings. That likely included all his valuables: precious metals and stones for his trade. And this inn was a far easier target to hold up and rob than Ambrose's formerly more fortified home had been. It explained why Hatch-heel's boot print had been at the site of the fire. That plan, as well as the man's earlier ability to pick the Watch Commander out from the crowd, when the man wasn't even in uniform, told Gilan that Hatch-heel was probably a local.

Gilan filed all that information away as he watched the men, now that they had all the valuables they could get their hands on, start heading towards the tavern doors in order to make their escape. Gilan couldn't stop them. The frustration that came with being trapped and helpless coupled with the feeling of failure too; he couldn't think of any world where Halt would be happy about this. But he also knew that the information he had learned by watching them, and the theory he had made as to their general identities, would at least help in tracking them down later—if nothing else. Small comforts, he supposed, wryly. The three men who had been guarding them started moving backward towards the doors as well, making sure to keep their weapons trained on their cowering prisoners.

But, before Hatch-heel even made it to the door, there came the sound of a booming shout from outside that froze the bandits into stillness.

"Attention, this is Sir Rodney, Battlemaster of Redmont. The Baron and his knights have all the exits covered. Lay down your arms and surrender yourselves immediately or we will be forced to subdue you!"

Most of the bandits flinched at this announcement or stood in silent shock. One of them let out a low whimper that turned into a cry of despair. He was soon drowned out by Hatch-heel's cry of fury and desperation.

"No! No, no, no!" he screamed as he understood the implications of the danger they were in.

Although the features of his face were obscured by the face paint he wore, there was no mistaking the look of abject rage, hatred, and betrayal that he wore. Interesting, Gilan thought. For it had to be a betrayal. There had not been enough time for someone to have noticed the situation in the tavern and travel to alert the Baron to mobilize the garrison. No, unless Halt had somehow figured things out and warned the Baron—which for all Halt's cunning Gilan doubted since he didn't have enough evidence or information to do so—Hatch-heel and his plan had been betrayed by someone.

Hatch-heel's wild rage didn't last long. The man soon calmed down enough to gather his senses and begin to act rationally instead of hastily. He took control of his panicking men—a few of which were loudly and desperately demanding to know what they could possibly do to get out of this situation.

"Grab that boy!" Hatch-heel commanded. Gilan's heart jumped when he realized that he was the boy the bandit had indicated. "We'll make this a bigger hostage situation—exchange the safety of everyone for our safe passage out of here!"

That claimed the other bandits' attention in an instant and bought back a much-needed sense of cohesion from them. At the same time, all the hope and nervous anticipation that had been building in the hostages died into fear and uncertainty again. Several mutters and despairing cries rose up before they were decisively silenced by the bandits renewing their earlier threats of death.

One of the bandits, the one who seemed closest to Hatch-heel, steeped forwards, his expressions hopeful.

"Do you think that will work?" he asked of Hatch-heel's suggested scheme.

"No! Of course not!" Hatch-heel snapped. "But it will buy us time until I can think of something that will! Now, grab the boy!"

Gilan could do nothing as he was hauled roughly to his feet and shoved forward, the point of a crossbow bolt digging roughly into his back.

"And while I parley, I want you to tie everyone else to those support beams," Hatch-heel commanded.

His second in command nodded his acquiescence, scurrying off to do as he was told as Gilan was pushed through the tavern doors and into the night and torchlight.

**~x~X~x~**

The sweet and warm smell of baking fruit pastry wafted from the oven, filling every corner of the cabin, and filling Halt's mind with the bittersweet tang of memories. Halt set down the knife he was using to carve a turnip and couldn't help but breathe it in for a frozen, quiet, moment before he rose to pull it from the oven. He could tell by the smell that it was ready, and knew if he left it any longer it was at risk of burning.

He wrapped a rag around his hands to pull it free from the oven. He set it to rest and cool by the window in the small kitchen and then moved back to the table and reclaimed his knife. He had no sooner sunk the blade back into the turnip to finish carving it into a lantern when heard Abelard's warning whinny. Shortly after, he heard a set of hoofbeats approaching rapidly then drawing short. Then hurried footfalls raced up the path and steps to the veranda. The footsteps were soon replaced by a frantic pounding on the door. Halt peered out of the spyhole to see servant in castle livery.

He opened the door abruptly. As soon as he heard what it was the man had to say, he grabbed his kit, saddled Abelard and set him to a gallop, only drawing rein when he reached the village's tavern and inn. He made his way swiftly to where the knights had surrounded the building. He arrived just in time to hear Sir Rodney call out for the thieves' immediate surrender.

Halt quickly pushed his ways forwards to stand near Baron Arald. But, before he could even ask him for a detailed update of the situation, the tavern door swung open to reveal a tall man dressed as a spirit with his face obscured to match his garb. He stepped out confidently. In his right hand was a loaded crossbow. In his left, he held and pushed a similarly dressed boy before him as if he were some type of living shield. And with the crossbow pointed squarely at his young back, that was exactly what he was to the man. Halt's mouth tilted down in a contemptuous frown. Needless to say, he had a low opinion of anyone who used children as leverage and hostages. Then Halt froze as he slowly recognized the face and features of the boy through his Summer's End disguise. His stomach dropped to leave a sick feeling in its wake.

Gilan.

The Bandit's hostage was none other than his apprentice. Because of course Gilan had to be here in the middle of danger, as opposed to absolutely anywhere else in the village.

Shock and disbelief soon turned into something darker. His hands moved almost of their own accord. In the span of an eye blink, he had an arrow knocked, drawn, and pointed at the bandit holding his apprentice.

"Halt!" Baron Arald cried in alarm and warning, already moving to reach out a hand to try and stop him.

"Don't even try it, Ranger," the bandit said nearly simultaneously as he too became aware of the threat. "I'm well aware you might be able to shoot me before I could kill this little brat, but it's no guarantee. What is a guarantee, however, is that, if so much as try it, my men have orders to start slaughtering every hostage in the tavern. But, if you agree to parley, I might not hurt him—well, not as badly at least."

Halt gritted his teeth against the tight feeling in his chest that had grown with the man's words. His eyes were already roving over his apprentice, looking for any obvious injury and thankfully not finding anything. Gilan's eyes were relatively calm despite the situation, defiant. Grudgingly, he resealed the tension in his bow.

"What do you want?" Baron Arald asked coldly.

"Simple," the man sneered. "I want to take everything I and my men claimed as ours and make it out of here unmolested. You and your men will provide us with horses and supplies and then step back and allow us free passage or I will kill every last hostage in my care starting with this boy and the other children."

"And what then, _Hollis_?" Arald asked angrily, putting an emphasis on the man's name, "You think that you would just get away with everything—that we'd simply let you and your men saunter off after all of this?"

Hollis startled, physically recoiling as Arald named him. For a moment his face went slack with surprise. "How did you—" he started to say but then cut himself short, allowing his rage to drive away his shock. His whole body tensed with a barely controlled fury. Gilan gasped fractionally in pain as the weapon was dug more forcefully into his back and Hollis's grip turned steely.

"It doesn't matter," he growled in answer to his own question. "Obviously it would be unwise for my men and I to stay here in Wensly any longer; so you are going to do as I ask. And you are going to do it _now_. As for how I will get away, once you provide my men and I with supplies and horses, I will release most of the hostages save a few which will ride with us as insurance. We will let them go when we cross the fief's border. Should you try to pursue or follow us, we will kill them. How does that sound?" Hollis sneered. "I will give you two hours to accede to my demands before I start killing people!"

The Baron said something in reply but Halt didn't hear him, his attention was locked on his apprentice. Gilan had made eye contact with him and was lightly grinding the soft-soled heel of his boot into the ground. When he saw that Halt was watching him, he lifted his boot slightly only to drag the edge of the toe across the indentation he had made with his heel. The movements he made were so subtle that Hollis didn't even notice as he argued with the Baron. But Halt noticed. And he knew that Gilan was trying to tell him something. Before he had the chance to puzzle out what it was Hollis spoke again, interrupting Baron Arald.

"You know my terms! You have two hours!"

With that, he began backing towards the tavern and then inside it, dragging Gilan with him. Even if Halt wanted nothing more, bursting in and trying to save his student had a greater chance of getting him and all the other hostages killed than anything and he knew it. His hands gripped tighter around his bow when the door slammed shut. A tense moment of silence followed the resounding thud of timber on timber.

"Well, this is a poor spot," Rodney said dully. "What should we do?"

"While he still has control over the hostages, there's not much that we can do. For now, make it look like we are acceding to his demands." Baron Arald said. He turned. "Halt—" he began but stopped when Halt raised a hand. He was staring again at the indentation Gilan had made in the dirt, his mind working. Then it cleared. He was fairly certain he knew what his young apprentice had been trying to say.

"I have a feeling that there might be more to Hollis's demands than meets the eye."

**~x~X~x~**

Hatch-heel, or Hollis apparently, pulled Gilan back into the tavern by his hair. Through the pain and his watering eyes, Gilan could see that the rest of the bandits had heeded Hatch-heel's request and had tied the tavern goers in groups to the support pillars in the room.

"You two!" Hollis commanded as soon as he was fully inside. He gestured harshly to the two bandits closest to him. "Fetch as many casks as you can carry from the storeroom, as well as any straw or straw-filled mattresses, stoke the fire, and set some in those braziers."

That last he had said in a lowered voice and Gilan only heard because of his close proximity before he was shoved roughly towards an unoccupied support pillar and tied in place.

The two bandits indicated left to do Hollis's bidding and Hollis turned his attention to his second in command when the man stepped forward.

"What do you have in mind?" he asked nervously. "You don't expect them to agree to what you asked? Or, even if they did, that we'd be able to get away when they have the Ranger right there to track us?"

"Of course not," Hollis said with a derisive snort. "I have something else in mind. I worked here when I was a lad and remember well that the storeroom was less than a meter from a root cellar—one that is only accessible from the outside. The knights only have the exits covered, after all."

"You mean to tunnel through the storeroom into the root cellar and escape that way?" the second in command asked.

Hollis nodded. "I do."

"But it won't work! The knights still might see us: even if they aren't expecting us to leave that way!" the second in command protested.

"Unless they're too busy and distracted to bother looking that way," Hollis sneered as the two men he'd sent returned with the first of the casks of spirits that he'd requested.

The second in command followed his leader's line of sight from the casks to the braziers and the fire, his eyes widening as he caught on to the plan.

Gilan's eyes widened too as he also pieced it together. Hollis meant to tunnel out the back and keep the knights from pursuing him by setting the inn on fire. It was safe to assume that the knights would be too distracted and busy trying to get into the building to save the people to pay attention to the bandits when they made their stealthy exit from the back from in an unexpected place and position.

He felt his skin grow cold as he fully realized the situation he was in. It momentarily locked him in a sick terror that only seemed to grow as more casks were brought out along with braziers, as a wood beams were hammered in place across the few exits to barricade them against the knights, and as Hollis selected a few sturdy and cowed looking men, cut them free, and forced them to follow after him. Likely, they would be made to dig the bandit's escape tunnel. Only one man stayed behind to guard the rest of the hostages. However, since everyone was restrained and weaponless, one bandit was more than enough.

Gilan gnawed on his lip, painfully aware that time was running out, that everyone in this room was moments away from meeting a horrible end—unless something happened to get them out of this situation…

Or unless someone _made_ something happen…

His eyes settled on the table that was about a meter's distance from where he was tied to the support beam. There were wooden platters and tankards strewn haphazardly across its surface... and there was also a fired clay wine jug.

**~x~X~x~**

"What do you mean?" Arald asked in answer to Halt's observation, still watching the door that Hollis had slammed behind him.

"Gilan was trying to tell me that Hollis is the man who started the fire in Ambrose's house several days ago," Halt said.

"Gilan?" Arald asked surprised before realization dawned. "That boy was your apprentice?"

Halt nodded grimly.

"We'll get him back Halt—and everyone else too," Arald said, placing a hand on his shoulder.

Halt nodded once, but his expression didn't lighten.

"But you were saying that Hollis lit Ambrose's house alight?" Arald added, focusing back on the topic at hand.

"Gilan obviously thinks so, and I'm inclined to agree with him. And, if that's true, then I'm fairly sure that he has something else in mind than his demands. He's clearly smarter than he looks. It takes a little bit of intelligence to plan as far ahead as he did: setting a house on fire so that Ambrose would have to relocate to a place more easily robbed."

"I see your point," Arald agreed grimly. "So, where does that leave us?"

"Thinking that his earlier demands were nothing more than a rouse," Halt answered promptly. "I think you should send a few of your troops out, make it look like they are doing as Hollis requested. But, as soon as they're out of sight of the tavern, have them circle back and surround the building from behind; that way we're ready if he does try anything."

Arald nodded thoughtfully, agreeing. "I assume you'll want to lead them?"

Halt nodded.

"Go then," Arald said, already signaling for one of his captains. "And let's hope you're right so you can catch the bastards with their pants down."

**~x~X~x~**

Gilan's heart hammered wildly in his chest as the flames grew steadily around him in their unquenchable haste to devour the combustible spirits, straw, and wood of the tavern. The bandits had stayed for a while to watch the result of their handiwork, likely to ensure that the fire was spreading as rapidly as they wanted. And, more importantly, that it would have no chance of going out by itself. Once they had been certain, they made a dash towards the cellar and to their own escape.

He had had to wait in agonized impatience and anxiety for them to finally leave, for the coast to be clear before he could act. He tried to block out the screams of the villagers and work through his own coughing as the smoke and heat burned down his throat and seared his lungs.

Only his arms were tied so he was able to lower himself to the ground and stretch out his legs. He kicked as hard as he could at the leg of the table near him, low and near the foot—hoping to rattle and tip it rather than to push it out of reach. The table itself was old and not well made. It wobbled and teetered on uneven legs. That made it easier, but he still had to try it three more times before it shook and tilted enough to cause some of the dishes to fall, and one more time after that to finally cause the clay bottle to fall and shatter on the ground. With desperate exultation, he stretched his leg out, angling the top of his foot around the sharp shattered pieces to pull them towards his body.

He flinched as the fire combusted in a heart-lurching burst of heat and flame on his left and intensified his efforts to pull the shards towards him. Then he balanced on the balls of his toes in a crouch and kicked the shards backward against the post before lowing himself down again. He stretched his bound hands towards the ground to grip one of the jagged pieces. When he had one, he began to feverishly saw away at his bonds with trembling fingers, hands nearly cramping from the awkward angle needed to try to and make the cuts.

All the while the flames and screams continued to roar in his ears.

His heart caught in his chest as he lost hold of the jagged sliver and was forced to spend several pounding heartbeats trying to grab it up again before he succeeded. The ropes finally gave with a snap and Gilan leaped to his feet. Dashing towards the pile of weapons, he grabbed a knife to cut the ropes that encircled the villagers and tied them to the support beams. Once they were free—the ones that were not terrified into frozen bodies or frantic screams—ran towards the door, tearing at the beam that entrapped them even as the knights battered at it from the other side.

A wail sounded close to Gilan's ear, momentarily overshadowing the other cries and screams. He turned to see a mother calling frantically for her child, her eyes darting around the burning room with feverish terror. Gilan too, swept the room then stopped when he saw a small flurry of motion near the enclosed stairwell that led to the upper levels. It was the mother's child. Gilan chased after him. He was halfway up the stairwell when he heard the doors to the inn splinter open and the shouts of the knights as they poured in to help the people get out to safety.

**~x~X~x~**

Halt and his small party of knights had just circled around the back of the tavern when he saw movement near the back wall. At first, he thought it might be a trick of the shadows or an animal—this side of the tavern was very poorly lit, backed by the forest instead of the street. However, when he focused on it, he realized that it had indeed been movement. Someone was prying open the trap door to a root cellar that was a few meters away from the back wall of the tavern. Halt caught the attention of the the knights beside him and pointed, before gesturing for them to wait.

Halt watched as all five men crept out of the root cellar before stealthily making their way across the open ground and then into the trees; right where he and the knights stood wreathed in shadows. Halt waited until they had made it a fair distance in before he broke cover, his bow drawn, the deadly warhead centimeters away from Hollis's nose. The man recoiled in shock and surprise, obviously not having had the slightest inkling that someone had been there until Halt had moved.

"I think that's far enough," Halt said coolly.

That was the signal that alerted the knights to move forward, surrounding the group of bandits, cutting off their escape, and closing in before they even had the chance to draw weapons. Halt was in the middle of directing the knights to secure the thieves when he got a sense that something wasn't right, that something was out of place.

It took half a moment before he realized what it was: a smell. The air was growing heavy with the scent of wood smoke—too much wood smoke. Halt glanced in the direction of the breeze. The inn seemed to be surrounded by a halo of light—far too much light to have been the torches of the knights or the ones that lit the street for the festival.

"Make sure they don't escape," Halt ordered the captain of the knights.

The man saluted in response but Halt barely saw it as he ran around to the front of the building. It was well and truly ablaze. He saw several villagers on the ground coughing and singed, and several knights helping to get more villagers out. One knight was holding back a frantic woman who was trying to desperately go back into the burning building, screaming that her child was still inside.

The stone in Halt's stomach seemed to settle deeper at the sight and whispered that he might have the beginnings of an idea how she felt when a quick sweep of the faces revealed only an absence of the one he wanted to see. It was painfully obvious that not everyone had made it out yet. Halt had no idea how many people had been held hostage inside the tavern. But seeing as this was a holiday, he expected that it would be quite a lot, more than what was here. So thinking, and with the mother's screams in his ears, he ran inside the building to help.

Three times he made the trip into and from the burning building. His fourth time in revealed no more people in the main room—at least none that he could see through the smoke. On his trips back and forth he had become aware of the fact that he still hadn't seen his apprentice. Seeing the space empty now did nothing to ease his fears.

"Has anyone cleared the upstairs?" Halt asked in a yell to Sir Rodney who stood behind him, doing one last sweep of the room. "I haven't seen my apprentice anywhere—or that woman's son!"

"No, not so far as I know!" The knight shook his head. "We cleared… the cellar and store… rooms, but I don't think anyone has… checked upstairs," He shouted over the roar of the flames, his words interspersed with fits of coughing.

Both of them surged forward, holding the sleeves of their jerkins over their mouths. Another burst of flames grew and flared to their right, painting a grim picture of what they already knew. The inn didn't have much time left… and neither did Gilan if Halt couldn't find him soon. When they made it in sight of the enclosed stairwell, Halt let out the breath he didn't know he was holding. His student was at the top, carrying a child that he was shielding from the smoke as best he could.

"Is there anyone else up there?" he pitched his voice so The boy could hear it.

"Just us," his apprentice shook his head before he practically bounded down the stairs.

But, fast as he was, it wasn't fast enough.

Above them there came the sound crashing timbers and splintering wood. Halt looked up just in time to see several ceiling timbers begin to fall. Gilan saw it too. In the split second he had to react, he did so by throwing the child to Halt, knowing he wouldn't be able to run fast enough himself to get through too.

"Gilan!" Halt cried as he caught the child, unable to do anything to stop his apprentice from being trapped by the burning roof beams. Halt turned his back momentarily to shield the child from the flames, smoke, and sparks of fire. When he turned back around, all he could see was a wall of wood and flames that sealed the enclosed stairwell completely, blocking any means of escape.

Halt shoved the child at Sir Rodney. "Take him to safety; I need to try to get Gilan out!"

Rodney nodded, taking the child from him to rush out of the flames and smoke. Halt hardly spared him a glance. He was already moving forward, gripping the burning timbers where the fire didn't rage so badly, trying to pull them away.

"Halt?" His apprentice's voice carried muffled and slightly distorted by the wood and fire sealing him in, but Halt could still hear the note of fear it contained—the plea for help, for some form of reassurance.

Halt cried out in pain as his left hand was burned by the flames of the beam he was trying, and failing, to dislodge. He hissed, holding his damaged hand with his other one for a brief moment before throwing his weight against the beams and trying again. His exultation as he tore a piece free faded entirely into dread as the small opening he created was again closed by more of the beams settling down to fill the gap—wedging themselves even more tightly than before.

"I'm here. I'll move the beams and get you out of there!" he tried to reassure Gilan as much as himself as he shoved desperately on wood that refused to so much as budge while the flames continued to grow around him and the inn creaked dangerously. He tried to shove away the knowledge that he was facing what probably amounted to an impossible task. He had no idea how long he tried to pry the beams free before he felt strong arms around him, strong hands gripping him, dragging him back and away from the blocked stairwell. He tried to struggle against the grip but he was held too firmly.

"It's too late Halt!" Sir Rodney's voice sounded in his ear. "We'll never get him out before the whole building collapses on us!"

"We can't lose both of you!" Another voice sounded, and Halt realized it was Baron Arald's.

"Let go of me!" Halt shouted. "If you help—"

"It's too late," Arald shouted above the roar of the flames, his voice despite its volume was not without regret.

But Halt didn't want or need his regret—he needed his help… he needed to save his apprentice. Despite his coughing, he was about to shout as much. But as if to punctuate the Baron's words and make his point, there came another loud crash. Two of the tavern's support beams fell, taking huge sections of the ceiling with it. It was getting too hard to breathe. The smoke-filled all corners of the buildings, surrounding them as they struggled through, choking the breath out of them—until it wasn't anymore.

Halt tried to blink the bleariness and smoke out of his stinging and watering eyes to see that Baron Arald and Sir Rodney had dragged him out of the building and to safety.

"No!" he tried to say, but all that came of his efforts was a dry rough cough. He tried again to break free; if he didn't, he knew that Gilan… that Gilan…

"Look!" One of the villagers screamed pointing up at the roof of the building.

Halt stopped his struggling and looked up along with most everyone present to see a small thin figure appear on the roof of the burning inn. Through the haze of smoke, Halt could just make out the lanky form that had grown to become so familiar to him over the past several months.

"Gilan," he breathed.

When the collapsing beam had trapped him in the stairwell, his apprentice had had nowhere to go to escape the flames but upward. Even now the flames were traveling higher. He could see them licking their way out of many of the second-story windows. It wouldn't be long until the fire spread to the roof beams and then the entire structure would collapse. And Halt could see no way down. The walls were too smooth to climb and there was nowhere to secure a rope to even if he somehow could manage to toss one up. There was also no ladder in the entire village that would reach that high. The only structure nearby was a giant oak tree. But Halt could see that it would be just too far to jump to.

Desperately, he wracked his brain for any way to save his apprentice. Then he had it! If he could get his hands on some canvas and had people, the Baron, Sir Rodney, and his knights each grab hold of the sides, they might make something soft enough for his student to land on if he jumped. But before the words were even out of his mouth, he saw Gilan pace to the peaked end of the roof to the side where the tree grew nearly parallel.

There came the explosive sound as the fire burst is way through the side of the roof opposite to where Gilan stood. He saw his apprentice flinch and whirl at the sound to stare wide-eyed at the growing flames. He seemed to freeze in place for several heartbeats. Then he started to move towards that direction in a careful side shuffle before stopping halfway and facing out again towards the tree, gathering himself.

Halt realized in that instant what he was going to do. Rodney, who had been watching the unfolding nightmare of a scene with as much shock, horror, and surprise as most everyone else present, had loosened his grip on Halt as his attention was taken up by the apprentice on the burning roof. Taking advantage of this, Halt finally broke free, running again towards the building. He shouted at the top of his lungs, trying desperately to make his voice heard over the roar of the flames.

"Don't try it! It's too far!"

Halt was only halfway to the building when he saw Gilan start to run along the pitch of the roof at full speed. There was not even the slightest hesitation as he launched himself off the edge of the roof and towards the tree—aiming for a large branch, parallel to and a little below the level of the roof—but many meters out.

It was too far.

The force his student had used to fling himself out into open space was impressive, but it was not enough. Halt stopped breathing as he saw that the branch was a meter too far for him to be able to land safely on his feet…

But Gilan didn't even try to land on his feet.

His body was angled with his hands out in front of him as if he intended to catch hold of the branch that way. But Halt could see that the branch was too wide for that. He could do nothing but watch, eyes wide, body utterly still and numb as Gilan leaped towards the branch with arms outstretched, knowing that there was no way for this to end other than badly.

Gilan's hands made contact with the rough bark of the branch. But he didn't try to catch hold of it. Instead, he kept his momentum moving forward, his body at a higher level than the bow. Then he brought his legs forward, in between, and through where he had placed his hands—in a perfect mimic of one of the more advanced vaults that Halt had only recently been trying to teach him. He then landed on a smaller branch, a little behind and below the one he'd just vaulted over. But he had too much momentum to simply come to a safe stop landing—especially not on such a small space.

He overbalanced and was sent tumbling off that bow.

Halt watched as Gilan descended down the tree in what could only be described as an almost controlled fall that culminated with him landing ungracefully on his back surrounded by a jumble of broken branches and autumn leaves.

Halt ran towards him, dropping to his knees beside where his student lay, only vaguely aware of the roof of the inn as it caved in in several places, the fire blazing brighter.

The parts of Gilan's face that weren't smudged with ash and soot were deathly pale, his breath coming in short struggling gasps. The fall had obviously knocked the wind out of him, but Halt didn't know if he was hurt any worse than that.

"Owww," he said faintly in between breaths.

Halt reached out towards him.

"Are you alright?" he asked, his tone strained with an odd mix of worry, relief, and disbelief.

Gilan took another harsh breath before his breathing steadied enough for him to try to sit up.

"Think so," he managed, tears freely streaking the soot on his face. Halt couldn't tell if they were from relief, shock, pain, smoke, or perhaps all of them combined. Regardless he pulled the trembling boy into a hug, ignoring the closed feeling in his throat and the slight trace of wetness in his own eyes. His apprentice was alive and mostly alright. Being keenly aware of how badly this could have ended only made the moment seem all the more fragile. He felt Gilan's arms circle around him in turn. They stayed like that for a short while, mostly unaware of the roaring of the fire and of the crowd of villagers, knights, and the Baron that had gathered around them.

Finally, Halt pulled away, holding his student at arm's length.

"What on earth were you thinking!" he demanded, voice harsher than he meant it to be.

"Thinking?" Gilan asked innocently.

"Exactly." Halt glared at his now smiling student, a smile that quickly wore away into soft laughter that was interspersed with coughing. And all Halt could do was wonder how in the name of all sanity he had agreed to take on an apprentice—or how he could ever have thought that it could be a good idea.

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**A/N:** Thanks again for reading! As always, feedback is appreciated! I love reviews and constructive criticism. Only one more chapter left! And it won't be so intensely plot-driven X)

I wish you all the very best until next time!


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** Here's the last chapter! I hope it proves enjoyable. Thanks for reading!

**Guest:** Thanks! X)

**TrustTheCloak**: I'm glad you didn't think it was too action-y; I was actually quite worried about that. Poor grumpy Halt, he is pretty soft-hearted deep down, isn't he XD But that's just one of the many reasons he's so loved. I'm always sad when stories end too XD Thanks so much for your kind words and your review! It totally made my day!

**Jammeke**: Aww thanks :3 Yeah, now that you mention it fire usually do spell disaster in one form or another in RA (poor, poor Alyss ;-; ). Halt and Gilan have some of my favorite dynamics so I love to write and read about them. Thanks so much for the review, I really appreciate it!

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**Chapter 3**

It was nearly midnight before things settled again. By then the bandits had been taken into custody. Everyone who had been injured in the robbery had been seen to by the healers and, in some cases, given a place to stay. The fire was under control, down to smoldering embers, and no other buildings were at risk of burning. The village had quieted down and Halt and Gilan were finally able to head back to the little cabin in the woods. In the morning they would have to meet with the Baron to decide what was to be done about the bandits and to help deal with the fallout from everything. But, for the moment, Halt was grateful to head back and get some rest. He was keenly aware that both he and Gilan needed it.

They had both been patched up, but would both benefit from some time to heal. Gilan was a little bruised, singed, and had suffered several minor burns. Halt's left hand and right arm had been burned too. Both master and apprentice were still coughing intermittently from the smoke of the fire.

As soon as they reached the cabin and settled Abelard in for the night, they sat opposite each other around Halt's table, nursing cups of coffee. A heavy silence descended between them, both seemingly content to sip at their drink and listen to the weight of their thoughts. Halt was staring sightlessly at a knot in the table when he was shaken out of his thoughts by Gilan moving suddenly. He'd sat up straighter as if suddenly remembering something.

"…Halt?" he began questioningly.

Halt glanced up curiously at him, too tired to voice one of his usual sarcastic rejoinders.

Gilan fidgeted a little. "Remember how you gave me permission to go souling on the condition that I give you half of everything I got while I was out?"

"Yes," Halt nodded. "That is, in fact, what I told you."

Gilan's shoulders slumped in something like resignation. "I'm sorry, Halt, I lost all the pastries I got in the fire."

Halt was unsurprised. "I'd noticed you didn't have any. But I just assumed it was because you'd decided to offer songs instead of poetry."

Gilan offered his mentor an indignant look. "My singing's not that bad," he said, a little defensively.

Halt only raised an eyebrow.

Gilan flushed before shooting Halt a viper smile. "I'll prove it; how about I give you a little sample."

"No!" Halt said. "No samples."

Gilan subsided, but the smile on his face and the bright flash in his eyes told Halt he wasn't about to forget the idea anytime soon. Gradually though, his smile faded into something more wistful and disappointed.

"I was looking forward to them, you know," he admitted a touch sadly. "I was actually looking forward to a lot of things tonight," he added ruefully, rubbing at the back of his head.

At his words, Halt glanced at all the preparations he'd been in the middle of: his half-finished lanterns, the sweetbread that had been set to cool, and the other ingredients he'd taken out but not had the chance to prepare. He realized then with mild surprise that, just perhaps, he might have been looking forward to some things too.

Maybe it wasn't entirely too late. Halt rose to his feet to fetch the pastry that had probably long since cooled in its perch in the window.

"Gilan," Halt began and then trailed. "Just… here," he said finally, shoving the sweetbread cake he'd cooked earlier in the day unceremoniously towards his apprentice along with two plates and some cutlery.

"What's this?" Gilan asked curiously.

"You wanted a Hibernian custom—well, here's one." Halt grunted out in reply.

Gilan's tired face lit up as Halt passed him a slice of the pastry and then cut a piece for himself.

"What is it called?" Gilan asked wonderingly, his excitement almost contagious.

"_bairín breac,_ or barmbrack, they're a traditional Summer's End desert," Halt replied before moving to light the one turnip lantern he had managed to finish.

"It's good," Gilan pronounced happily after having tried a bite. He glanced around and then pointed to the turnip lantern with his fork. "Is that a Hibernian custom too?"

Halt nodded. "They're supposed to ward off evil spirits," he said, then turned a withering look on his student. "But it's obvious they don't work all that well."

Gilan seemed to find that terribly funny for some reason Halt couldn't completely fathom. But, then again, Gilan seemed to find most things amusing one way or the other. Hearing his student laugh after the harrowing terror they both gone through, after nearly losing him to the fire was more warming than Halt was willing to admit, let alone acknowledge. He was surprised when he felt the very faint trace of a mirroring smile on his own face despite himself. This night could well have ended much differently. Halt briefly closed his eyes before shaking his head to dispel the thought as much as the image. He realized then for the first time that somehow, without his even being aware of it, he had grown… used to having Gilan around.

"What's this?" Gilan asked suddenly when his fork struck something solid in the cake. Without waiting for an answer, he bent over his plate to pull the offending object out. Unwrapping it, he pulled out a twig.

"Um, Halt… why is there a stick in the cake?"

"Bad luck, Gilan."

"Bad luck you put twigs in the cake?" Gilan asked, puzzled.

"No," Halt shook his head. "Bad luck in general. Getting a twig means your whole upcoming year is going to be filled with misfortune."

Gilan frowned momentarily at the offending object before looking up at Halt, eyes sparkling as sharply as his smile. "What kind of tradition is that? I mean, you could just avoid the bad luck entirely by not putting any twigs in the cake in the first place—then nobody would get it."

Funny thing was that Halt distinctly remembered asking that very question himself when he was younger. His parents and younger brother hadn't much appreciated his asking: seeing it as a mere disruptive challenge to tradition for the purpose of breaking the joy of the moment. The extremely patient, and almost forcefully tolerant, answer he had received had been that the bad luck is inevitable and the twig just divined out whomever fate dictated was going to bear the lion's share of it that year. But Halt discarded that answer in favor of another entirely.

"Where would be the fun in that?" he asked his apprentice wolfishly.

Gilan's nose crinkled indignantly at that answer but he didn't miss a beat, his smile never once faltering. "With me, because I'd not be having any bad luck," he challenged.

Halt dismissed that as unimportant. "I don't see how that's relevant. Besides, it gives me an excuse to give you more chores," he said, the words made sage by his blank expression.

"You did this on purpose, didn't you? I bet you put twigs in all the pieces!"

Halt, who had been calmly making his way through his own piece during their conversation, paused to pull out his small cloth-wrapped bundle from the pastry as soon as his fork struck. He unwrapped it to reveal a coin.

"See this?" he asked, blank-faced. "This means that I'm going to have a very fortunate year."

"That isn't fair," Gilan protested under his breath with a sad shake of his head.

"Life isn't fair," Halt said knowingly, before taking another bite.

"Then I suppose you won't mind me blaming you for all of my misfortune this year. After all, it would be your fault for cursing me with the twig."

"Do as you please," Halt shot back, "but that won't stop it from happening… or me from enjoying it."

Gilan laughed. "Now I know you did it on purpose. I bet you memorized what was in every piece. I want another one!" he reached toward the Barmbrack.

Halt pulled it quickly away. "One piece is more than enough. Sweets are unhealthy, you know."

"So is misfortune!" Gilan pointed out.

And, though he did have a fairly good point, Halt refused to acknowledge it. It kept things more interesting that way. The two of them lapsed into a comfortable silence after that, lulled by exhaustion and the quiet evening. Halt looked out at the tiny pinpoint light of the turnip lantern, then at the Barmbrack, and then finally to his singed and exhausted apprentice: an apprentice who was still smiling and happy anyway—perfectly content, curious, and excited to share in these few broken remnants of old tradition Halt had managed to pull together. Halt couldn't quite quell the sudden sense of contentment, connection, the simple joy inherent in family, shared tradition and belonging. He sat back with a sigh, content to just be in this moment. It was enough.

**~x~X~x~**

**Epilogue**

**~x~X~x~**

It was about two weeks later when things had finally settled back into normality again. The tavern and Ambrose's house were being rebuilt, and the village was recovering. Halt and Gilan's burns were mending well, and they'd begun to settle back into the familiar routine of lessons and training. Hollis and his men had been sent to trial and, needless to say, Halt wasn't overly optimistic over their prospects. Considering all the trouble and pain they had caused, Halt couldn't say he was very sympathetic either.

Halt was comfortably reading reports near the hearth fire when Gilan came bursting into the cabin, an excited grin lighting up his face and practically bounding with eagerness. Obviously, he'd picked up some sort of exciting news while running errands in Wensly. Gilan set down the bag of supplies he'd gathered before sidling up to Halt.

"Well?" Halt asked blankly. "I assume by the look on your face you've got something you think you need to say."

"You'll never guess what I overheard when I was in Wensly," he said.

Halt didn't particularly care to hazard a guess, but didn't need to. Gilan continued on as if he nether noticed or cared about the silence that had greeted him in answer.

"I've become a local legend!" he grinned.

"More like local nuisance," Halt snorted in response, shooting his student a withering look.

But Gilan was neither withered nor put off.

"A lot of the village is still whispering about what happened on All Saint's Eve. Apparently, they think that there was no way I should have escaped the building alive, and think I used Ranger magic to save myself. They might have got the impression that Rangers can turn into spirits and fly short distances—along with all the other dark magic we do," Gilan said, barely able to keep from laughing at the ridiculous notion. "In fact, a lot of them were behaving really weirdly when they saw me: like they were scared and impressed at the same time. That's actually why I tried to figure out what was going on in the first place and eavesdropped a little when they thought I left."

Halt nodded. He'd heard the rumors too. They had spread across the town fairly quickly after All Hallow's Eve. Maybe Gilan thought it was fun now, but he might well change his tune in a couple of weeks when the novelty of it wore off and the weight of the mistrust settled in more deeply in its stead. A story like that was definitely good for the Ranger reputation, it was true. But they had that reputation for a reason. People were wary of Rangers and this would only increase that. Being a Ranger was often a very lonely and solitary life because of it. Halt shook his head.

"As I said, local nuisance," Halt repeated flatly, his mind flashing back to the several late Summer's End pranks that Gilan had tried to pull on him recently—and especially the one this morning. Coffee was sacred and not to be tampered with, in Halt's opinion.

"I think you might have confused the definition of legend a little—it doesn't mean anything close to nuisance," Gilan replied. Then, in a show that was more daring and entirely more foolhardy than Halt had seen of him in a while, he added, "and besides, people call you that more than me anyway."

"Do they now?" Halt shot Gilan a glare. "For that enlightening piece of information, you can spend the rest of the evening in your room doing charting assignments." Halt pointed to a pile of papers at the corner of his desk.

Gilan moved to gather the papers as asked, but the sudden mischievous sparkle in his eyes plainly said that he didn't know when to quit today—and didn't have an ounce of self-preservation on top of that. Sure enough.

"You would send a legend to their room?" Gilan asked with feigned indignance. "That seems awfully presumptuous."

That did it.

"Tree," Halt said flatly, entirely unamused.

Gilan nearly dropped the papers, his expression falling.

"But, Halt—"

Halt cut him short with a gesture that brooked no argument and followed his apprentice out. As he watched him disappear into the branches of an evergreen, he called after him. "Do you know what I heard, Gilan? I heard that _legends_ have to scour all the cookpots."

Gilan's head appeared suddenly, upside down, from the branches.

"But Halt, you said I'm not a legend at all. I'm only a nuisance," he offered his mentor a hopeful, innocent smile.

"And nuisances get to scour the pots _and_ beat the rug," Halt said blankly.

"In that case, I think I'll go back to being a legend."

"And, in that case, you can clean out the stables too. They've gotten pretty dusty from how old this conversation is getting."

Yes, everything was back to normal—or at least as close to normal as could happen whilst things settled into a somewhat new, but not entirely unwelcome, sort of balance, Halt thought with a shake of his head. Apprentices…

**The End**

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**A/N:** Thanks again for reading! I hope this proved to be an enjoyable diversion. Reviews are loved if you are of a mind to leave one! I also appreciate constructive criticism as I'm eager to learn and grow as a writer.

So, according to my research, _bairín breac,_ or barmbrack is indeed and actual Irish All Hallow's Eve tradition. (They've actually got quite a lot of fascinating/awesome traditions.) And since Hibernia seems to be pretty similar to medieval Ireland I kinda ran with it XD. Also, for those reading my other story, I promise I'm working on getting the next chapter out whenever I manage to snag some free time. This month has just been a little on the nasty side and I'm feeling a little burned out. Ah well, such is life I suppose ._.

I wish you all the very best until next time! I hope you all have an amazing weekend with lots of coffee XD (that is if you're partial to the stuff) XD

**~ATGTJ~**


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